


The Brachnian Affair

by perphesone



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:30:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perphesone/pseuds/perphesone
Summary: Years after the Dominion War, Julian Bashir, fresh off a five-year mission in the Gamma Quadrant, finds himself at an elegant soiree in Paris, Earth, thrown to celebrate an emerging alliance between the Federation and a strange Gamma Quadrant species. What starts as an opportunity to have a few drinks and catch up with old friends turns into a diplomatic emergency when one of the aliens begins acting dangerously. Even worse (or is that better?), the recently-appointed Ambassador Elim Garak is in attendance, and no one is sure exactly why.





	1. Seeming Parted

The _USS Galahad,_ under the command of Captain Elisa Moraga, had made first contact with the Brachnians nearly five years ago. It was one of the first major triumphs of her five-year mission in the Gamma Quadrant. The Brachnians were alien in every sense of the word, but they displayed an intellectual curiosity and a pacifist attitude that made them a natural fit as Federation allies – and maybe, soon, Federation members. After a rocky first encounter, there had been no animosity between the Federation and the Brachnians. Their largest problems stemmed from difficulties in communication – Brachnians were unsuited to life on most Federation planets, so it was a technological challenge to get a Brachnian in the same room with a Federation citizen, much less to have a mutually intelligible conversation. Even so, Starfleet’s engineers had spent the past five years remotely collaborating with the Brachnians to make it possible. Now, finally, tonight was to be the social debut of Brachnians on Earth after months of preparation and remote contact. Whatever an alliance between the Brachnians and the Federation would bring, it had certainly been a long time coming.

“You can say that again,” said Miles.

“Whatever an alliance between the Brachnians and the Federation will bring, it’s certainly ben a long time coming,” Julian said again. Then he peeled himself away from the wall and made a little half-pirouette to face his friend. “Shall I get us a couple of drinks?”

“You know what I like.”

“Two Andorian flirtinis, coming right up.” He waited for the wide-eyed grimace to appear. “And for you, maybe a glass of the white.”

“All right, get out of here, you – ” Miles shooed him away with a playful swat. “Didn’t realize it was amateur night at the comedy club…”

Julian sank into the sea of Starfleet white, glad that he had made a point of coming over to see Miles rather than just hanging around the crew from the _Galahad,_ and then…

Well, the breath fell right out of him.

There was Ambassador Garak at the bar, dressed to the nines, apparently representing Cardassia quite admirably to the Bolian bartender. Julian had known he might be there. As one of the guests of honor himself, he had access to the full list of invitees. He’d made sure that an invitation was sent out to Miles and Keiko, to Ezri, and to Nog, with the hopes that he’d bring Rom and Leeta along. He had not requested that an invitation be sent to Elim Garak, and he was at a loss for who had.

He desperately wanted to see the man, of course. That wasn’t the issue at hand. He dallied on his way to the bar, hoping someone would pass by with whom he might be entangled in a friendly chat. Perhaps he’d run into the captain – but no, she wasn’t much for making an appearance for appearance’s sake. She would be in the shipyards, overseeing the _Galahad_ ’s refits. There were the Brachnians, of course, but they were so difficult to corner. There were only six of them in attendance, and the rest of the party guests were a mess of the usual suspects – an assemblage of Vulcans, Terrans, Tellarites, and so on whirling busily across the white ballroom floor, every now and then a group of them swarming around one of the hulking brass containment suits and cooing into the communication panel on the right arm.

The crowd was dense and lively enough that it was difficult to pinpoint anyone in particular, but at length, he recognized one of his crewmates: Lt. Mary Thompson. She had done something new to her hair, put it up in two frizzy black poufs on the top of her head. He could take the opportunity to compliment her, but she seemed to be engaged in a stirring round of “Logical/Illogical” with a Vulcan in a sharp little silver number that was anything but _logical_ in design. He’d been introduced to her once before, he remembered – T’Pom, of the house of Vortuk. He’d tried to invite her to dinner and struck out miserably. Best not to interrupt them, he thought. Thwarted from conversation, he stopped simply to admire the crystal chandelier. That is, simply to stall for time. He was in a strange mood. Was he nervous? His gaze kept flickering back to Garak, trying to overhear something without being noticed himself.

The barkeep, doing his part to make a good impression on the ambassador, was putting together some kind of cocktail as a diplomatic gift from the Federation.

\---

AMBASSADOR: _(With his eyes far away)_ You can’t tell me that this is the sort of thing they drink on Earth.

BARTENDER: _(Charmingly)_ What kind of representative would I be if I lied about that to an ambassador? Want me to fix you something sweeter? Andorian flirtini, perhaps? Or… a Blue Bolian?

AMBASSADOR: On the contrary, I am enjoying this… _gin and tonic_ very much. I am only shocked that a Federation beverage could be so palatable.

\---

Ah, that was Garak. Sly as ever, but Julian would be all right. He’d take that empty seat beside the man and surely, he thought, it would all fall into place. _Read any good books lately? How wonderful! Would you like to fight about them? I haven’t had a good disagreement in ages – nothing like old times, anyways. Dear me, I’ve missed you._ And then, after that, well…

\---

BARTENDER: You seem to be the man of the hour, Ambassador.

AMBASSADOR: At a party to celebrate the alliance between the Federation and the Brachnians? Why, it has nothing at all to do with the Cardassian Union.

BARTENDER: Then how do you explain all the eyes on you?

AMBASSADOR: I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.

BARTENDER: Look around, Ambassador. I can point out about five people off the top of my head who have been circling you like a school of fish all night.

AMBASSADOR: By all means.

BARTENDER: _(He surreptitiously indicates Miles O’Brien.)_ Him, for starters. He’s been eyeing you like you owe him money. You don’t, do you? And then there’s the Starfleet Ferengi, his father, the Bajoran woman, the Trill… and I haven’t even mentioned the talk.

AMBASSADOR: Why, what sort of talk?

BARTENDER: Well, you know what I’m asking about, don’t you? Everyone wants to know why you’re here tonight.

AMBASSADOR: _(Coldly)_ I am simply representing the Cardassian Union in a show of diplomatic good will.

BARTENDER: _(Trying to make a recovery)_ It’s funny, isn’t it? This whole to-do is all about the Brachnian-Federation alliance, but there are hardly any Brachnians here. It might as well be an Academy class reunion for all the dress uniforms swimming around.

AMBASSADOR: Think of it from the perspective of the Brachnians. They only have twelve of those containment suits. If I were them, I wouldn’t want to have them all in one place either.

\---

It was just about time to bite the bullet, wasn’t it? _You can do it, Bashir, you old scamp. You’ve faced worse boogeymen in the Gamma Quadrant than one dear, old friend._

\---

BARTENDER: You know, Ambassador, I’m terribly interested in Cardassian literature.

AMBASSADOR: Are you? I’m afraid I can’t stomach the classics these days.

BARTENDER: Is that so? I – _(Seeing someone approach)_ Hi, what are you having?

\---

“Whatever he’s got, thanks,” Julian said as he slid onto the stool beside Garak – and my, hadn’t it been a long time? That certainly wasn’t _kanar._ He peered over the heads of the shifting masses and recognized what must have been Keiko standing beside Miles. Now that she was there, he certainly had to follow through with the joke. He was about to see Keiko O’Brien again, how delightful! He tried to keep himself calm by looking forward to it. “And one Andorian flirtini, if you please.”

“Doctor,” Garak said, his face dangerously unguarded. “I wasn’t sure you were ever going to muster up the courage to say hello.”

“The courage to say hello? To an old friend? I don’t know what it’s like on Cardassia these days,” he said (more bitterly than he’d meant to), “but here on Earth we’re very fond of keeping in touch with our old friends.”

“Why, Doctor, I can’t fathom how you’d know the way things are done on Earth. You haven’t been on Earth in years. Or have you?”

“I find I keep abreast of things even from out in the Gamma Quadrant. We do get subspace comms out there, but maybe you didn’t know that.”

“Is that so,” said Garak mildly. A tense silence followed. The Bolian, sensing that his chances at charming a handsome tip (or some classified information) out of the Ambassador had been thoroughly blown, set Dr. Bashir’s gin and tonic on the bar with excessive gentleness and a brilliant smile, then turned away and got to work on the flirtini.

Julian took the cool glass in hand and swung himself around on the stool to face away from the bar – really, to face away from Garak. He let his eyes slip shut as the refreshing bitterness of the drink hit his tongue. He felt so unbearably hot in this uniform under these lights.

“It is quite good, isn’t it?” Garak asked, catching him off guard. Either he’d forgotten how loudly Garak spoke when he wasn’t minding his volume, or Garak was doing it on purpose to set him on edge. Both, likely, but he tried not to let it rattle him.

“Of course I think so,” he said, “but I’m surprised you’d drink something so… _Federaji,_ is it?”

“It’s been a long time, my dear. My palate has expanded.”

“Andorian flirtini,” the Bolian announced, and there it sat, precious, pink, and sparkling in its little stemmed glass: Julian’s escape.

But Garak wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I must say, Doctor, that I had been beginning to think there was some problem with the _Galahad_ ’s long-range subspace transmitters. You’ll have to find me again this evening and regale me with some heroic tales from the Gamma Quadrant when you have the time. I have so missed your letters,” he confessed, as though it were nothing, and then he was gone. Julian stared after him. How on Earth had he let their conversation get so rotten so quickly?

“You don’t have to take it out on the bar,” the Bolian said sharply when Julian slammed his fist down hard enough to make the glassware dance.

 _“Sorry,”_ he said, took up the darling little cocktail from the bar, and let the momentum of his anger carry him all the way over to the O’Briens like a wave on its way to crashing.

\---

He ought to have treasured the bark of disbelief when he thrust the flirtini into Miles’s free hand, but it only made him feel worse. “There’s nothing to laugh about, really. Sorry it’s not a pint, but it’s a perfectly serviceable drink.”

“Julian, it was your own joke,” Miles protested, clearly put off.

“Are you going to drink it or not? Hi, Keiko. I didn’t know if you’d be able to make it.”

“I wasn’t sure I was going to,” she admitted, eyeing the flirtini with bemusement, “but Molly and Yoshi were completely fine while I was at the conference today, so I thought it can’t hurt to let them stay home alone for another few hours.”

“Staying home alone already? They’re practically grown up.”

“Julian, I didn’t ask for this.” (Miles.)

“Miles.” (Said Keiko.)

“Didn’t you think it would be funny?” (Julian, belligerently.)

“Yes, Julian. Ha, ha. We all had a laugh. Now, why don’t you have it?”

“You know, I will,” he said, and then he did _(It’s very good, I’ll have you know),_ and then he marched through a set of open doors that led onto one of the balconies _(Are you going to tell me what that was about?)_ with his however much was left of the gin and tonic, leaving the empty flirtini glass on a table somewhere along the way.

_(What do you think, Keiko? He’s throwing a fit.)_

At least, that’s what he assumed they were saying now that he was well out of earshot. Even as he thought it, he knew how immature it sounded. What was it about Garak that made him regress? He threw himself towards the railing, thoroughly miffed, and – _CLANG!_

Julian howled in pain. Not looking where he was going, his elbow had collided with a massive brass hull – a Brachnian containment suit! As he reeled backwards, he reached for a phaser at his belt that wasn’t there _(the Gamma Quadrant will do that to you if Deep Space Nine hasn’t already)._ The Brachnian suit buzzed with the reverberations of the impact.

A passing breeze made him shiver – the force of the collision had splashed the remainder of his drink across his front. The Brachnian did not move. Julian rubbed at his throbbing arm.

“Sorry,” he said at last, “I didn’t think this balcony was occupied.”

“Occupied,” said the comm unit on the suit’s right arm, “but not at capacity.” It raised that limb and indicated the open space at the railing.

“Thank you,” he said, and took the space.

The featureless head of the suit turned to him, its glass face empty and black as ever. “You are Bashir.”

“Yes!” Julian confirmed, pleased to be recognized. “Doctor Julian Bashir. I was there when the _Galahad_ first encountered Brachnia.”

“You are friend to me,” intoned the comm unit on the Brachnian’s arm. It was not really an arm, Julian decided, but more like a fin. It had no phalanges, only a broad plane that tapered to a point in an organic curve. The overall effect of the containment suit was something like that of an upright whale.

“How can that be?” Julian asked. “I’m certain we’ve never met. I’ve never encountered a Brachnian face-to-face until tonight.”

“Brachnia has no face,” the Brachnian said.

“Is that so!”

“It is so,” it confirmed.

“Excuse me if I’m being a bit forward,” Julian said, “but may I ask you a few questions about your physiology?”

“You may or may not. I cannot determine.”

“Sorry, I mean – would it offend you?”

“I will not be offended.”

“Fantastic. Oh, where to start! Can I ask you if your physical form is reflected by the shape of the containment suits?”

“The containment vessel limits the body.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It determines the shape of the body,” the Brachnian told him. “Someday,” it continued, “I hope to meet the Federation body outside of its containment vessels. It may bring us pleasure to exist in that way.”

“Without – do you mean the uniform? The clothes, the white fabric coverings,” he explained, tugging at the front of his dress uniform. “I wouldn’t call it a containment vessel.”

“There are white coverings and brown coverings.”

But he wasn’t wearing anything brown, or was he?

“Oh,” he said at last, “but of course we wouldn’t perceive the same color spectrum, so perhaps there’s been a translation error…”

The Brachnian had raised its right fin to indicate its empty face. “On some of the Federation bodies, it is blue. On some, yellow. Some, pink.”

 _“Oh._ No, no, no. This,” – he pinched the back of his hand to demonstrate – “does not contain the body. This _is_ the body. The outer layer of the body. We call it _skin.”_

“The body is contained by skin at all times?”

“Well, yes, you could think of it that way, but really it’s a part of the body itself. It’s part of us.”

The murky nothingness gazed at him through its blank mask. “You end with the body.”

“…Yes. Yes, I would say that I do.”

“There is much remaining to be understood.”

Julian smiled. “Lucky for us, we have until the end of our lives to try and understand each other.”

“The end of our lives,” intoned the right fin of the Brachnian’s suit. “Does this phrase align with the meaning of ‘skin’?”

“Not quite, my friend, though I can see how you got that one,” he said, leaning over the railing, not in the mood to explain mortality to a species that might not experience it, not in the mood to confirm whether or not the Brachnians were biologically immortal, not in the mood to feel as jealous as he would if it turned out they were.

 _Ah, Paris!_ The wind lifted his hair away from his forehead. He thought of an undulating Terran jellyfish, perhaps _T. dohrnii,_ infinitely regressing from maturity to infancy and growing up again in an immortal loop. Above – far, far above – the homeworld of the Brachnians might have twinkled at him from its distant perch in another arm of the Milky Way. Beneath, the busy lights of Paris hurried along streets and rails and over the water like the rippling bodies of ctenophores in the deep.

“Will it bring you pleasure to be alone?” asked the Brachnian. Kindly, if it were possible for that computerized voice to sound kind.

“No,” Julian answered. “Stay, if you like.”

He took a deep breath in and turned around. Through open glass-paned doors, he observed the movements within:

\---

LIEUTENANT MARY THOMPSON: _(Sipping a Blue Bolian)_ I don’t even like the way it tastes, but I like it anyways. I actually enjoy that I don’t like it.

T’POM OF VULCAN: _(With a glass of champagne)_ I find that to be most illogical.

\---

It looked like they were getting on swimmingly, but he couldn’t watch one pair for too long. He let his gaze drift across the ballroom, waiting to fall on someone else he recognized.

\---

_(Leeta and Rom dance a tango as the orchestra plays a waltz.)_

LEETA: Rom! Rom, OW! My arm doesn’t move that way!

ROM: Sorry – oh! Sorry!

LEETA: Ouch, that was my toes!

ROM: Sorry, sorry, sorry! _(To someone else)_ Sorry! _(Whispered to Leeta)_ Sorry!

LEETA: Oh, Rom, I’ll love you forever.

ROM: So far, so good!

_(They embrace.)_

\---

GARAK:

\---

But he looked away.

\---

LIEUTENANT THOMPSON: _(Who has finished the Blue Bolian)_ I’ve never been good at dancing; I have two left feet.

T’POM: _(Examining Lieutenant Thompson’s feet)_ I find that to be a most illogical expression.

\---

GARAK:

\---

LIEUTENANT THOMPSON: Maybe you could show me some of your moves. I bet you have a lot to teach me.

T’POM: You must have been misinformed, Lieutenant. I am no dance instructor.

LIEUTENANT THOMPSON: Oh, that’s even better! I _hate_ learning from _teachers!_

T’POM: I find that to be a most illogical perspective.

LIEUTENANT THOMPSON: Then maybe _I_ have something to teach _you_.

\---

GARAK: _(Speaking with an Andorian)_

\---

T’POM: Are you an instructor, Lieutenant?

\---

GARAK: _(Laughing in that way he does when he is bored with someone)_

\---

LIEUTENANT THOMSPON: Consider it more like an extracurricular activity.

\---

GARAK: _(Who hasn’t replied to a single letter in the past seven years)_

\---

ROM: Oh, Leeta…

LEETA: Yes, Rom?

\---

GARAK: _(Who looks very beautiful tonight – very dignified)_

\---

ROM: I think I have a stomach ache. I ate…too much…of the cake.

LEETA: Does that mean you want to get out of here?

ROM: …Yes!

LEETA: Oh, Rom!

\---

GARAK: _(Who doesn’t look any older than he did before)_

\---

_(Rom and Leeta are gone.)_

\---

GARAK:

\---

_(Lieutenant Thompson and her partner for the evening have disappeared into the mass of bodies on the dance floor.)_

\---

GARAK:

\---

 _(Lieutenant Selek of the_ USS Galahad _descends the stairs, headed to one of the lower levels, but he is gone before Julian can think to say hello.)_

\---

GARAK:

\---

GARAK:

\---

GARAK:

\---

GARAK:

\---

GARAK:

\---

GARAK:

\---

GARAK:

\---

GARAK:

\---

A cohort of barrel-chested Tellarites blocked his view.

“I think I’ll have another drink,” he said unwisely. “Shall I get you something?”

“I do not consume liquid,” said the metal limb of the Brachnian, “but thank you, Doctor Bashir.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

He waited.

Nothing came.

“Well, I’ll see you later, perhaps. Thanks for the company.”

“Yes,” it said.

 _Yes to what?_ Julian wondered.

Regardless, he braced himself and dove back into the thick of things, hoping to find Miles and make amends now that he’d cooled off a bit.

\---

It turned out that he didn’t have to search for too long; Miles had been looking for him, too.

“You’re leaving already?” Julian asked, crestfallen.

“It’s the last transport to Dublin in half an hour,” Miles explained apologetically. “I don’t think the kids are quite ready to spend the whole _night_ on their own.”

“It’s not that late, is it?”

“It’s after 2300 hours, Julian,” Keiko said.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “I’d thought I’d treat you both to another drink after I embarrassed myself with the last one.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Miles, eyes firmly on the ground. (And his face was turning a bit red, as well. They two had never been the best with their feelings, had they?)

There was an uncomfortable lull during which none of them wanted to say goodbye.

“Have you gotten the chance to talk to Ezri?” Keiko asked.

“Not just yet,” he said, “but we write to each other now and then, so we won’t have too much to catch each other up on.”

If he were being honest, he was dreading the encounter.

“You write to each other! That’s good to hear. Did you see Nog? Do you know he’s already been promoted to Lieutenant?”

“I’ll be sure to congratulate him before the end of the night.”

“It’s really something that so many of us from DS9 were able to make it,” she said.

They didn’t mention the friends absent and they didn’t mention Garak.

Julian gave each of them hug, lifting Keiko off her feet and, to his surprise, getting picked up an inch or two by Miles.

“I’ll be on Earth for at least another month. I’ll be in Dublin. I promise.”

“You will if you know what’s good for you,” Miles said, threatening and teary-eyed all at once.

\---

Farewells having been made, Julian headed for the nearest washroom to see about getting the front of his jacket under some sonics – he was dry now, mostly, but faintly sticky. He suspected that the dress uniforms were made of some fabric without the stain resistance factor of the standard duty jumpsuits. If he were quick, he might be able to make it in and out without anyone noticing what he was up to.

Unfortunately, he locked eyes in the mirror with Ezri Dax the moment he stepped into the washroom. She still had her hands under the sonic faucet, so she was unlikely to chase him, but he already had his jacket down around his wrists and therefore stayed put.

“Julian!” she exclaimed. Then she said: “How did you get that _bruise?”_

“What bruise? Oh,” he said, contorting himself in front of the mirror to get a good look, “that bruise.”

“What happened?”

“I, er, ran into one of the Brachnians.”

“Didn’t you see it coming? They’re two and a half meters tall –”

“And about as wide, yes, I know. I was preoccupied,” he said, closing the subject. He got his jacket the rest of the way off and held it taut under the second sonic faucet. “I’m glad you were able to make it, Ezri,” he said, not looking at her.

“Me, too! Have you spoken to Garak yet?”

“Well – ” he began.

“I was just talking to him a minute ago. He was telling me about his latest project with the Cardassian ministry. You should ask him about the Monument to Cardassian Memory – I’m no expert in memorial politics, but it sounds like a great project. I think he’s really proud of the work he’s been doing recently.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about it,” Julian snapped.

“Julian,” she said, admonishing.

“Don’t ‘Julian’ me, Ezri. Not in that tone. If he doesn’t want to keep in touch, that’s his prerogative, but I’ve every right to be annoyed with him for it.”

“Julian,” she began – and it wasn’t in _that tone_ anymore, but he still couldn’t abide by it. He shook out his jacket with excessive force.

“And I did speak to him, Ezri, and it went terribly. He’s every bit as snide and manipulative as ever.”

Ezri frowned at him. “Those are pretty harsh words, Julian.”

“I have every right to use them, so don’t you try and convince me they’re unwarranted. Do you know how I found out he’d first been appointed to the ministry? I read it in a letter from Nerys. She mentioned it without a second thought, because she assumed that I would already know. I found out about his ambassadorship in a video-comm with Miles. He asked me if Garak accepting the position had been _my idea,_ when I didn’t know a thing about it. I used to write to him, Ezri, but you’ll forgive me if I gave up after the first three years without any reply!”

His voice reverberated unpleasantly against the washroom tile. Ezri’s steady gaze made him feel as though he’d been turned into a very small Rigellian mud-toad. He put his jacket back on and started doing up the fastenings in the mirror.

“I hear you, Julian,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I can’t tell you what you should do, but… Garak is here tonight. If there’s something you want to express to him that requires a response, this could be your only opportunity for a long time.”

She pressed her lips into a smile, put her hands on his shoulders, and squeezed.

“Thank you, Ezri.”

“Any time. Now, let’s get out of here,” she said, tilting her head to indicate the door. “I think there might be a line.”

Whatever else there was between them, she did always know how to make him laugh.

\---

Once he and Ezri had parted ways, he found himself with another gin and tonic, in a much better mood, and got himself surrounded by an adulating company of nameless whoevers (he didn’t mean that) from some Federation planet or other (it was on the tip of his tongue), telling the story of the  _Galahad_ ’s first encounter with the Brachnian homeworld.

“We’d beamed right down into the murk,” he said, delighting in the way his audience leaned in, angling themselves to see and hear him as well as possible, “Captain Moraga, Lieutenant Selek, and myself, all of us struggling to swim through this thick black liquid atmosphere in our diving suits. The beams from our flashlights went about a meter and stopped, so we were all relying on echo-navigation and the Galahad’s sensor readings. Completely aimless, slogging through the mucky, gooey, sticky atmosphere, in search of the life signs we’d detected from orbit…”

\---

 “Captain,” Selek said, “I am sure the readings were not in error.”

“I trust you, Lieutenant, but there’s nobody down here,” the captain replied. Her voice resonated strangely in Julian’s helmet.

“I sense a presence, Captain. I cannot make telepathic contact, but I do feel…a presence.”

“You’re a _touch_  telepath, aren’t you?” Julian asked although he knew the answer – he’d long learned it made people more comfortable if he feigned a certain amount of ignorance, made himself seem a little less  _sure_ –

“And not an exceptionally practiced one,” Selek confirmed. “There are some Vulcans who would be able to follow this presence to its physical location; I myself do not have the skill.”

“I vote we split up,” said Captain Moraga. “All in favor?”  _(Aye!)_  “Glad to hear it, boys. Run proximity scans every three minutes and stay within communication range. If any of us run into trouble, we beam aboard immediately and have Li’pek bring the other two up with us – no questions asked. Be safe.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The three diverged, each stolen from the others by the swallowing black of the Brachnian sea. It was not like the dark of a cave. Even in the deepest caves of Thamet, the first moon of Hanin III, the beam of a flashlight would strike against a wall – however far away, there was a limit to the cavern. This darkness had no end. His flashlight here struck nothing – simply gave up and stopped, overtaken and absorbed into the featureless dark.

He swam on and encountered nothing. Nine proximity scans on, fear of the unknown turned to boredom. Likely the life signs they’d picked up were nothing but plankton or bacteria. Right about now they’d be plucked out of the samples they’d beamed aboard the  _Galahad_ and a delighted Lt. Thompson would just be beginning to catalogue them. All well and good for scientific observation of the Gamma Quadrant, but a bit of a snore for the exploration team hoping to document some advanced life forms, maybe even to make a first contact.

 _(Why do we say microorganisms are less advanced?_ said Thompson one night over drinks in the first weeks of their mission.  _It infuriates me! They’re perfectly adapted to their environments. They accomplish every task vital to survival. They have the power to alter the condition of their habitats on a massive scale. They have more power than we do, and we have the arrogance to claim they are less advanced! And they don’t have any of the troubles we have, do they? They’re self-sufficient. Show me a heartbroken bacterium. You can’t. No bacteria has ever evolved to feel sorrow._

 _Well,_ Julian had replied,  _we’re in the Gamma Quadrant now, aren’t we? Who knows what we’ll find yet._

Thompson’s eyes were like old Earth pennies, copper irises speckled with the blue-green patina of oxidation.

 _What happened that made you sign up for the_ Galahad?

_What do you mean?_

_I know who you are, Doctor Bashir. You’re a hero. You could have an assignment anywhere you want. You could’ve asked for a desk job in command. What made you want to leave the Alpha Quadrant?_

He’d smiled then. This was when he’d still thought he could conquer the Gamma Quadrant with his natural charms. Regression, indeed.  _What can I say? I can’t keep myself away from the frontier._

Thompson, tight-lipped, just shook her head.  _For me, it was a break-up. My partner of seven years._

And wasn’t it the same for him? There’d been no physical relationship between the two of them, but they had been – …

 _That’s a long time. I’m sorry,_ he said. Garak Garak Garak poured into his mind like water from a jug.

 _I just couldn’t make sense of it psychologically. To see somebody most days of the week for that long, and then – nothing. I kept thinking, why don’t I just go see him? Why don’t I just go to Earth and see him? I thought, if I’m out in the Gamma Quadrant, there will be a_ reason  _that I don’t see him anymore. I thought that would make it easier to understand._

_Has it?_

_Not really. But I like the_ Galahad  _and I like the work. I like the crew. So far, at least. It’s good to be around new people._

_I take it you haven’t met Ensign Brogg yet._

_I like Ensign Brogg!_

_I don’t mean Alba Brogg. I mean_ Mora  _Brogg._

_There are two Ensign Broggs?)_

He thought he saw movement at the edge of his flashlight beam. The next proximity scan revealed nothing. His surroundings were uniform as ever. Perhaps it was a shift in the tides; a natural behavior of the liquid atmosphere, not indicative of any disruption.

_(You’ve been such a good friend. I’m going to miss our lunches together.)_

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” he said to the Garak of his memory.

“What was that, Doctor?” Captain Moraga buzzed in his ear.

“Sorry, Captain. Haven’t seen anything yet, I said. Have you?”

“No. What about you, Selek?”

Brachnia ebbed and flowed around him.

“Selek?”

“Do you read me, Lieutenant Selek?” Julian asked. Maybe Selek was still within range of his transmissions and not the captain’s.

But there was no answer.

“Are you picking him up on your scanner, Doctor?”

“No, Sir.”

“Shoot,” Moraga said. “I’ll get in touch with the  _Galahad_ and see if they can read his location.”

\---

Captain Moraga slammed her fist onto the control panel and then apologized stiffly to Commander Margot Li’pek. She’d had herself beamed back aboard along with Julian, but they had been unable to lock onto Selek’s position. She didn't even strip off her diving suit before heading up to the bridge, and Julian followed in kind.

“Captain, we’re losing altitude.” (That was Ensign Mitchell at the helm.)

“Compensate, Ensign.” Into her comm badge: “Transporter room, try filtering out the atmospheric fluctuations and scan again. Lieutenant Jemison –”

“– it’s not working, Captain –”

“Lieutenant Jemison, keep trying to hail Selek.”  _(Aye, Sir!)_  “Try different frequencies.” Then she rounded on the ensign. “What are you talking about, Mitchell?”

“I can’t compensate. The gravitational pull of the planet has nearly tripled in the past – …five and a half minutes.”

She pressed her comm badge and hailed the chief engineer. “Margot, we’ve got a situation. Can you reroute any more power to thrusters?”

_“I’ll see what I can do, Captain.”_

“It’s no use!” (Mitchell.)

“We don’t talk like that on my bridge, Ensign. How long do we have to solve our little problem?” (Moraga.)

“At this rate, no more than ten minutes.” (Mitchell again.)

“I’ve got Selek!” (Jemison.)

“Put him through.” (Moraga.)

_“Captain! This is Lieutenant Selek. I’ve made contact with – something, Captain, but I cannot say what. The contact has been only telepathic.”_

“Telepathic…”

_“Yes, Captain. This being, whatever it may be, has immensely powerful telepathy.”_

“What about telekinesis, Lieutenant?”

_“…I am not sure. Why do you ask?”_

“The  _Galahad_ is being drawn into Brachnia’s atmosphere at an alarming rate. We may all be dead in ten minutes, Lieutenant, so give me your best guess.”

_“It’s possible, Captain, I…I apologize. It is difficult to speak.”_

“It’s all right, Selek.”

_“It is overwhelming. I feel – desire. Desire for understanding. Knowledge. This being wants to study us, Captain.”_

“What do you propose we do about it?”

_“I think that we should let it, Captain.”_

Moraga took in a breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth.

“Ensign, cut all power to the engines.”

“Captain –”

 _“Now,_ Ensign.”

\---

They plummeted.


	2. Incorporate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this but why lol. Enjoy!!

“The Brachnians held us there for three days, captive within the _Galahad_ ,” said Julian to the growing crowd around him, “a full two hundred leagues beneath the surface of the Brachnian atmosphere,” and there he took a sip of a lovely blue drink he’d been handed by someone, “with Lieutenant Selek as our only point of contact. And _that_ was when…”

\---

“They would like me to send another individual,” said Selek at 38 hours since their descent. Thus far, Selek had been the only one to exit the _Galahad_ and communicate with the Brachnians. It seemed that they were able to link with him telepathically through the medium of the liquid atmosphere but not through the medium of the _Galahad_ ’s hull.

“Did they tell you why?”

Selek held his hands open in apology. “I have become more adept at communicating with the Brachnians since our first contact, but much of their meaning is still lost. My understanding is that what they seek would be akin to an anthropological interview.”

“Do you think we should give them what they want?”

“Candidly, Doctor, we are completely at their mercy. I believe that they will only release us when they are satisfied with the information they have received. They have a highly developed intellectual curiosity,” he said. To a stranger he would seem indifferent, but to Julian the admiration in his tone was as plain as day.

“I take it you want me to volunteer.”

“It has to be you, Doctor. I understand that they have already touched your mind – albeit at the surface level – and are interested in what they found. The same is true of the captain, of course, but…”

“This is not a mission for a captain. The risk is too great. I’m happy to satisfy their curiosity, Selek, if you’re confident we can take them at their word.”

“I trust the Brachnians, Doctor Bashir, though I do not fully understand them.”

“Then I suppose I’ll go ahead and slip into something more comfortable.”

“Doctor?”

“A joke, Selek. I mean I’ve got to change into dive suit.”

“Ah,” Selek said, “that will not be necessary, Doctor.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

\---

Captain Moraga scowled at the two of them. “Lieutenant, are you telling me that I’m supposed to launch my CMO out of an airlock and into a hostile alien atmosphere, and that they want him _naked?”_

“Yes, Captain.”

“And you want to go along with this, Doctor?”

“It doesn’t seem as if we have any choice, Captain,” Julian said. “The Brachnians have highly developed telepathic communication, but it seems as though materials like the ship’s hull or the protective layers of a dive suit prevent them from transmitting their thoughts. Selek has only been able to communicate with them due to his Vulcan training. Being that I’m psi-null, I won’t be able to help them to penetrate the suit’s materials like Selek can.”

“You also won’t be able to breathe,” Moraga said.

“He will be able to wear a breathing apparatus,” Selek interjected quickly. “It is enough for the majority of the body to be uncovered.”

“You really have no objections, Doctor?” Moraga asked.

“None that outweigh the rewards, Captain,” he said firmly. Then he smiled. “Except that I might be a little embarrassed. I may have been indulging in a few too many Delavian chocolates as of late.”

His joke landed. The tension fell out of Captain Moraga’s shoulders as she laughed. She ran her fingers through her short, unruly curls and threw her arms out in defeat. “Well, we’re stuck here in the goo until the Brachnians let us go either way. What’s one little CMO? If they ask to have our chief engineer – _that’s_ when we’ll be in trouble,” she said. “Go ahead, Doctor. I’ll begin arrangements to have you sent out.”

\---

“And there I was,” Julian said, “absolutely starkers aside from my breathing apparatus and a tether around my waist keeping me within comm range of the _Galahad_ – ”

\---

With his body drifting in the Brachnian atmosphere, Julian’s mind began to swim away from him. The weightlessness of Brachnia was unlike the weightlessness of normal zero-gravity conditions. Rather than an absence of pressure from above, he felt a constant support from beneath. It had been hot at first – like touching a patient with a fever – but now it was as though the atmosphere had regulated itself to match his body temperature. The boundaries between himself and the Brachnian sea felt less and less tangible the longer he spent adrift. He forgot his body; lost awareness of his toes; became as physically malleable as the medium through which he moved.

The touch of the Brachnian mind was the same – subtle, gradual, and endlessly alluring. Julian found himself thinking of people, places, little bits of information he hadn’t thought about in years before he realized that he must be answering the Brachnians’ questions.

His mind wandered comfortably wherever the Brachnians led. He felt them learn about Starfleet, the Federation, about Deep Space Nine and the Gamma Quadrant _(that’s here)_ and the taste of honey and the wormhole and the Alpha Quadrant _(that’s home – far away from here)_ and Delavian chocolates and Tarkalean tea and clothing and uniforms _dress uniforms_ off-duty clothes _shore leave_ Risa _pleasure planets_ pleasure _Jadzia Dax_ the Trill, a humanoid species _like me_ that may coexist with a sentient organism called a symbiont _Quark_ Ferenginar _profit_ loss _“Dabo!”_ drinking _kanar_ Elim Garak _literature_ and the Brachnians absorbed the entire plot of _The Never-ending Sacrifice,_ absorbing simultaneously the spirited arguments of Julian’s book club lunches with Garak, absorbing simultaneously the work of that great Earth poet  _Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? /_ _Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth /_ _Tell you I do not, nor cannot, love you?_ absorbing simultaneously the look in Garak’s eyes when Julian said something exceptionally _Federaji_ , both adoring and reproachful, absorbing simultaneously the concepts _longing, attraction, sacrifice, disappointment, loneliness,_ and _desire,_ which fascinated them immensely.

He left a few of those things out in the telling, of course.

\---

“And, well, to make a long story short, the Brachnians were so pleased by what they’d learned from my mind that they asked Selek to send them each and every individual aboard the _Galahad_ in turn to conduct a similar, ah, anthropological interview.”

“I hope they weren’t disappointed,” said a sly, familiar voice from the circle of faces that had gathered to listen to his story. “If I were the Brachnians, I would have wanted to save the best for last.”

He found Garak’s pale blue eyes and tried to meet the challenge he saw in them. “Well, we’ll have to forgive them,” he said – charmingly, he hoped. He refused to let that underhanded (he was sure) compliment ruin his mood. “After all, they couldn’t possibly have known until it was too late.”

“Ah. That is right, isn’t it,” said Garak, smiling politely.

“Yes! And then, um,” Julian stumbled. _Oh, dear,_ he’d had one too many, hadn’t he? Or was it just the effect Garak had on him? After all this time! He felt a little bit sick.

(He didn’t say this out loud, but the Brachnians had been especially curious about Garak. They had teased out all of the regret holed up in Julian’s heart and laid it bare. He’d relived their highlights reel, from the first encounter in the Replimat to the bullet in the neck to the unfinished goodbye. He’d stepped through the airlock back onto the _Galahad_ naked, wet, and crying.)

“Are you all right, Doctor?” asked a sweet-looking Andorian in civilian dress.

(Once they were out of the thick of it, he’d been grateful for the experience. He’d written to Garak then for the first time since the end of the Dominion War. He’d sought to make things right – he _had._ )

“Yes, yes, I’m –”

“Doctor Bashir,” said Lieutenant Selek, who appeared at his shoulder. His white dress uniform had been badly torn on one sleeve and smeared with a black stain like an oil slick, the braids around the wrist dangling limply from a tattered elbow.

“Selek! What's happened  –”

“There is no time. One of the Brachnians’ containment suits has been compromised.”

“Was there a deliberate attack?” he asked, getting to his feet. He followed Selek to the stairway, relying a little too heavily on the banister as he clumsily descended.

“Unclear,” Selek replied. “All I can gather is that the containment suit has, in essence, sprung a leak.” Their footfalls on the staircase punctuated the rhythm of his speech.

“I don’t suppose you have any solilotrine on you,” Julian ventured, hoping to shake the drunken sluggishness off of his muscles.

Selek let Julian go ahead of him down the stairs.

“I was under the impression that _you_ were the doctor, Doctor.”

“Very funny, Selek – and to think everyone says you have no sense of humor. I guess I’ll have to…” – His foot slipped and he went down two steps at once – “…sober up the old fashioned way.”

\---

Julian had to duck between the enormous suits of the gathered Brachnians in order to reach their fallen comrade. There were six of them, counting the one on the ground. The sight of it was certainly sobering: a brass giant, sprawled mournfully across the floor. A stream of black fluid steadily gurgled out of a rupture in the crook of its massive cetacean throat and pooled on the parquet floor. He could see that a wad of cloth had been stuffed into the breach. That must have been where Selek had sacrificed his sleeve... but it had already been soaked through and didn’t appear to be doing much to staunch the flow.

Julian moved to get himself to the Brachnian’s side, but another barred his way with an outstretched fin.

“Doctor Bashir!” exclaimed the comm unit on the fallen Brachnian’s right arm. Its head did not turn to look at him. “I have news which will bring you pleasure: I have decided to become an individual!”

Before Julian could begin to parse this announcement, the new individual hauled itself up to its feet and careened into its brethren. It smashed through them after a brief grappling match, flinging itself against the banister at the foot of the stair. The contingent of partygoers who had rushed down the stairs to see the excitement started tripping over each other to get back up to the second floor. A nasty sound told Julian the rupture in the containment suit had widened.

“Stop! Just hold still,” he shouted, breaking free of the Brachnian arm that held him back. The containment suits were large, but strangely light for their size and severely limited in maneuverability. “You’re losing atmosphere quickly. How can we repair your containment suit?”

Receiving no answer, he turned to the other Brachnians gathered around. “Will this Brachnian be able to survive once exposed to our atmosphere?”

“Yes,” droned the communication devices on each of their five right arms.

“For how long?”

“Indefinite,” they told him.

 _What?_ he thought. _How can that be?_

“Explain,” said Lieutenant Selek, who was approaching cautiously.

“Clarify,” the Brachnians countered.

“How can one of your kind survive outside of your native atmosphere?”

The injured Brachnian was the one to answer: “I have no native atmosphere.”

“Then what is the purpose of the containment suit?” Julian asked, baffled. _And what’s pouring out of it if not the liquid atmosphere he had swum in on Brachnia?_

“It – limits – the – body,” intoned the Brachnian. The computerized speech of the comm unit had become disjointed and slow. Was the organism within losing its ability to control the suit?

“Just hold on,” Julian said, considering the options. An on-duty medic would be helpless without any knowledge of the Brachnian body, and any medication Julian could get his own hands on would likely be useless. Any medical _tools_ could very well be useless. What wouldn’t be useless?

A standard tissue regenerator could be calibrated according to one of the other Brachnians. Then, it would be able to repair any damage done by exposure to the Earth atmosphere.

“Selek,” he said, “can you find me a –”

He broke off, spinning out of the way as the Brachnian lurched forward and smashed its blank face against the floor. Black fluid left the containment suit like yolk draining out of a cracked egg.

“No–!”

Julian dove to the Brachnian – but what for? What would he do, shovel the heavy atmosphere back in with his bare hands?

He made a decision. “One of you,” he said to the Brachnians, “will need to open your suit for long enough to accommodate a guest. Selek, do you have a tricorder?”

“Not on my person.”

“Find one. I have reason to believe that the physical body of the Brachnian occupies a very small area of the containment suit. I’ll need you to run a scan and see if you can help me locate it.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Selek said. He left at once.

In the meantime, what to do? Selek’s move to plug the leak with a piece of his uniform had been smart – there wasn’t much else in the way of material at a diplomatic soiree like this. Despite complaints to the contrary, a Starfleet dress uniform would allow some air to circulate, but the Brachnian atmosphere was thick, with a high cohesion factor. A plan coalesced.

Step one: He dragged the Brachnian containment suit back to the foot of the stairs and propped it up in a seated position to reduce the amount of fluid lost.

Step two: He removed his own uniform jacket.

Step three: With effort, he wrenched the compromised helmet piece off of the containment suit.

Step four: He draped his jacket over the opening thereby revealed, and – oh, he’d just cleaned it. _Never mind! A life may be at stake._

Step five: He created a firm seal between the fabric and the opening in the suit using a…

 _Damn._ He didn’t have anything. While he scanned the room for something he could salvage from the décor, a warm body settled beside him. “Go ahead and run a scan, Selek,” he said automatically. “Look for any significant differentials in either density, temperature, or composition. What do you think I should use to secure this?”

But the man beside him was already taking out a small device, and the man beside him was not Selek.

Julian breathed in. They were very close now, but Garak’s eyes were on his work.

“Garak. What is that?”

“A standard dressmaking tool, Doctor,” Garak informed him as he ran it along the edge of the fabric, pressing firmly. “I always carry one with me. It’s only designed to create a temporary seal, but it should last an hour – perhaps two.” Right. Now they were back on course.

Step five: _Garak_ created a firm seal between the fabric and the opening in the suit using a Cardassian dressmaking tool.

Lieutenant Selek arrived next, and (Step six:) initiated a tricorder scan to pinpoint the location of the Brachnian.

While the scan was underway, Julian glanced back at the other five Brachnians. They hadn’t moved in minutes, neither helping nor hindering his efforts to rescue their compatriot. _Why?_

“I am not finding anything, Doctor,” Selek said over the soft beeping of the tricorder.

“Nothing?”

“There are no differentials in density, temperature, or composition as far as the tricorder is able to read. It would appear that the contents of the containment suit are completely uniform.”

Julian’s brow furrowed. “How could that be?”

One of the Brachnians shifted behind him. He turned to see it shuffling across the floor, trying to push all of the escaped liquid atmosphere into one pile.

“You would think they had enough atmosphere to spare on their own planet not to have to scrape it off the floor,” Garak said.

The Brachnian addressed Garak for the first time. “You do not understand.”

“Please, educate me,” Garak said. Julian was surprised to notice that he didn’t sound smug or facetious at all.

“It is not atmosphere,” said the Brachnian’s comm unit. “It is –”

“It – is – _me!”_ interrupted the now-headless Brachnian beside them. “Return – me – to – my – self,” it demanded.

“It will return to Brachnia,” said one of the others.

“No! I – am – an – individual! I – am – _me!”_

Of course. The black liquid was _not_ the Brachnians’ atmosphere. It _was_ the _Brachnian._ Julian stood. “You will not collect any more of that material.”

“It seeks to separate,” the Brachnian protested.

“And what is so wrong with that?” Julian asked.

“There is only one Brachnia.”

“When I look around this room, I see six Brachnians.”

“The separation is artificial. Brachnia learned from the Federation how to separate the body. It is temporary. This part of Brachnia does not wish to return.”

Julian took a step closer to the five of them who opposed the other.

“Help me to understand you,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me that you are a single organism?”

“There is only one Brachnia.”

“But you are able to – exist – separately, for a time, using these containment suits.”

“Is it not the same for Federation individuals? Is the separation not temporary?”

“No,” he said. “It is the permanent state of most Federation species, my own included, to exist as individuals.”

A silence passed over them like a wave at the ocean’s surface passes over the creatures of the deep.

“To be separate,” the Brachnian told him, “causes us pain.”

Julian’s mind took him to the gray promenade of the space station after the Dominion War. He came to the office that had once belonged to Commander Sisko and stared in through the glass paneling on the door.

“It can be a source of pain,” he said, “to be separate, but more than that it is the source of our strength.”

He walked past the empty storefront that had once displayed the name of Garak’s shop.

“Our individuality is what makes our society possible. Each of us has unique experiences which can never be replicated by another.”

He went to the bar where Ezri wasn’t – where Jadzia hadn’t been in a long time.

“We are able to share these experiences through varied forms of communication.”

He stared at a PADD night after night, composing a letter he wouldn’t send.

“By listening to each other and seeking to understand each other’s experiences, we can make the decisions that will best serve us all,” he said. “That is what society is for us. If you wish to maintain contact with the Federation, you will need to learn to communicate with us as individuals _and_ as representatives of a whole.”

He took a breath.

“Now, as I understand it, you are able to rejoin the whole at any time once you have separated.”

“Yes,” one of the Brachnians confirmed.

“Then why not allow this part to separate? It will have experiences in the world that would be impossible for the whole to replicate. It will learn and grow, just as we do. And then, when the time comes, it may rejoin you. Then, Brachnia as a whole will be enriched by the time during which it has been separated.”

“This decision is too great for the parts,” spoke the comm unit on a Brachnian’s right limb. “Brachnia must return to the whole.”

“Why not let this part remain behind?” Julian asked. “It could experience life in the Federation until Brachnia comes to a decision. You could ask for its assurance that it will eventually return to the whole as well.”

“This decision is too great for the parts,” spoke the comm unit on a different Brachnian’s right limb.

Selek spoke softly at Julian’s shoulder. “Doctor Bashir, now that we know the nature of the Brachnian, I would be able to prepare a containment field that would allow it to transport this damaged suit and its contents back to its homeworld.”

Julian bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t let them take this individual captive. If even one part of the whole desired to exist as an individual, he could not allow it to be reabsorbed without a fight.

“What do you think?” he asked one of the Brachnians.

“This decision is too great for the parts,” it replied.

“I am not asking for a decision. I am asking what _you_ think about the situation.”

He was met with a silence. He turned to his friend, the new individual leaning against the stair.

“What about you? What do you think?”

“I – would – rejoin – after – a – time,” it told him. The voice of the comm unit buzzed – a telltale sign of damage to the mechanism.

“Tell them, not me,” Julian said. He stepped out of the way to address them all. “There’s a Federation custom known as a negotiation. When a difficult decision needs to be made, all of the individuals involved will come together and spend time talking – communicating – with each other until everyone is able to come to an agreement. If Brachnia would be amenable, we could begin negotiations…here,” he said, and took a seat on the bottom stair beside the Brachnian individual, “and now.”

He smiled, despite the uncertain mood around him.

\---

It turned out that blocking the stairs down to the main exit of a party venue after an upsetting incident was not the ideal setting for important diplomatic talks, and so the nine of them had mopped up any spilled Brachnian into an empty ice bucket and relocated to a small conference room on the third floor: five representing Brachnia, one representing the Brachnian individual, Doctor Bashir mediating the discussion, Lieutenant Selek acting as the impartial voice of logic, and Ambassador Garak, who had surprised everybody by volunteering to sit and take notes. He had also taken it upon himself to tend to the compromised containment suit, making sure that the seal between its throat and Julian’s repurposed jacket was regularly re-pressed.

It was already past midnight when the meeting had begun, and now the sun was threatening to rise. No conclusion had been made, but a recess had been called for the benefit of the non-Brachnians among them. In a society that aimed to be fair, the Brachnians would have to learn, decisions like this could not be made all at once. They would all return to their lodgings and reconvene at another location once Julian and Garak had been able to get a few hours of sleep. Selek insisted that he required only a brief period of meditation to return to top form, so he would spend the rest of their break engineering a more permanent solution for the broken containment suit that would allow the Brachnian to continue to communicate with psi-null parties.

Garak found him on the balcony as the sky turned orange from the bottom up. Julian heard him, but he didn’t turn around. He squeezed his eyes shut and scrubbed at his face with his hands. His skin felt too thick. He was certainly dehydrated. He scratched his fingers through his hair and found it too greasy. The roof of his mouth had an unpleasant taste. He didn’t mind seeing Garak now, but he wished he could clean himself up first. At least they were outside. At least he was out of that uniform jacket and he could feel the cool morning air on his skin.

“Thank you, Garak,” he said. The roughness of his own voice caught him off guard. He cleared his throat. “For all of your help.”

“You handled the situation admirably,” said Garak. He stepped forward to lean over the railing at Julian’s side. “Is there a starship command in your future?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, flashing Garak the best smile he could muster in his current state of exhaustion. “Let’s see if this blows up in my face or not before we talk about all that.”

“I think that you are doing very well.”

He caught Garak’s eyes. They looked incredibly blue. It must be because the morning light had turned the edges of his scales from pale gray to pink. It had enhanced the contrast. It was all he could do to stop himself from leaning any closer before he fell into Garak’s arms.

“You must be tired,” Garak said.

“Why did you come to this party, Garak?”

“I am acting as a representative of Cardassia to the Federation.”

“The alliance with Brachnia has nothing to do with the Cardassian Union. Why are you here?”

“If I had been somewhere else, Doctor, you might still be downstairs scraping spilled Brachnian off of the floor.”

“Garak!” Julian felt both of his hands turn to fists. Garak’s eyes widened. He took a deep breath. “I apologize, Garak. I am tired. So are you. We’ve had a rotten night. Please answer my question.”

They looked at each other for a long time, each taking the measure of the other. Garak did look older now. Julian saw new creases in the fine scales around his eyes. His jawline had softened a little. None of it mattered at all, because Garak was looking at him now as though he were a baby bird fallen too soon from the nest – something he wanted to care for but couldn’t bring himself to touch.

“My dear doctor,” Garak said softly, “if you must know, I am here because I heard that you would be in attendance. I understand that you will be on Earth for some time. I would like to take you to lunch before you go.”

He searched Garak's face. There was no smug smirk, no twinkle in his eye, nothing that told Julian he might be teasing. Still, he allowed himself one last test.

“My dear,” said Julian. “My very, very, very dear Mister Garak,” he said, watching Garak's reaction carefully, “I am afraid that I have to decline.”

“I see,” said Garak immediately. His expression closed off. He pushed himself away from the railing. “I apologize, Doctor. This has been quite the gaffe.”

There hadn't been any sign  _all night_ that Garak had been toying with him, had there? He'd projected it himself. He couldn't say yet what that meant, could hardly stand to conjecture, but...

“Garak, wait,” Julian called after him. “Can’t I tell you why?”

Now he had the chance to find out.

“If you must.”

He took a breath in through his nose and let it out through his mouth. 

“Because, my  _dear,”_ he said, savoring the feel of the word on his tongue, unable to keep the smile from playing at his lips, “it is much too early for lunch. If we are really going to make up for all our lost time, don’t you think we ought to start with breakfast?”

Garak’s carefully polite expression fell away and in its place arose the most brilliant smile Julian had ever seen on him.

“Speechless, Garak? I hope it’s only because you’re thinking of where to take me. I’m hoping to have a nice  _pain au chocolat._  When in Paris, after all.”

“Julian, you will have to tell me who it was that taught you to be so  _cruel.”_

“You…” he paused, then made a decision. He stepped closer to Garak and took his hands. After the briefest moment of hesitation, he felt Garak’s nails pricking backs of his hands, squeezing him tight. “You, Elim, are the one who went seven years without answering a letter.”

“Ah, but now you’re undermining your own argument.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why not allow the part to separate?” Garak asked. Julian recognized his own words from earlier in the night. “It will have experiences in the world that would be impossible for the whole to replicate. When the time comes, it may rejoin, and the whole will be enriched by the time that has been spent apart. I could not have gone with you to the Gamma Quadrant, and nor would you have been welcome on Cardassia Prime. These are things we could only have done as individuals. Apart.”

Julian wanted desperately to argue. He wanted nothing more than to contradict, to object to his words being taken out of context, and to point out the false equivalencies. Instead, he placed a hand on the back of Garak’s neck and drew him as close as he could bear.

“Elim,” he said, “I am going to return to my hotel. I am going to take a shower and change my clothes. I am going to brush my teeth. I recommend you do the same. In exactly one hour, meet me at the intersection of  _Rue de la Voie Lactée_ and  _Rue Cochrane_. We will find a café, and once we are there, I will tell you exactly why everything you have just said is positively absurd.”

“Oh, my dear,” said Garak, delighted, “I look forward to being convinced."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! The original inspiration for this fic was this gorgeous piece of art by SJ Miller: http://anunfinishedman.tumblr.com/image/67977976270
> 
> I feel like most post-canon DS9 fics have Julian move to Cardassia and basically follow Garak's lead in rebuilding the community and I would be lying if I said I didn't love those fics, but I am also really fond of the idea of Julian getting to live out a TOS-style exploration mission on a starship after the end of DS9...
> 
> If anyone has read "The Female Man" by Joanna Russ (or maybe some of her other work does this too??) you'll know where I got the idea to incorporate playscript-style writing into regular prose. My non-fanfic writing is mostly playwriting, so I was really inspired by that idea! Hopefully it works well here, bc it's something I'm definitely interested in trying again.
> 
> PS does it count as atmosphere if its liquid???? the idea is that it's just so dense that there's no gas component, only liquid. sources are conflicting on this, but i guess in this case it's a misnomer regardless because it was an Alien all along


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